It's not Maria that Frank wakes from this time, but Lisa and Frankie. He doesn't remember how long it's been since he's dreamt about them, though he thinks he knows what prompted it. But when he shifts to look at Peter, the kid's gone again. Before he can spit out a curse, he hears a pair of uneven footsteps coming from the middle of the room, combined with the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Frank pushes himself to a sitting position and scans the room. Peter's walking to the center of the warehouse, hauling a full trash bag behind him. He's limping in order to keep his weight off his sprained ankle, but it's not slowing him down much. He notices Frank before Frank can demand what he's doing and pushes the trash bag out in front of him.
"I, uh, cleaned up the bathroom," he announces quietly.
Frank can only blink. "You what?"
"It's fine, I triple-bagged it so the glass wouldn't cut through." He nudges the bag with his foot to prove his point. "I threw away the rest of the mirror shards still on the wall. And I replaced two of the lights. I couldn't find a third."
Frank just stares, trying to wrap his head around whatever this is.
Peter clears his throat and kicks the bag again. "Where do you want the glass?"
"When did you get up?" Frank demands, barely processing the kid's question.
"About an hour ago. It's a quarter 'til eight. Should I… Should I have woken you up?" Peter asks, uncertain.
An hour ago? Peter was supposed to be out for way longer than that. How quickly could this kid adapt to the sedative? And why the hell was he cleaning? And with the splint and a sprained ankle too? "What're you doin', kid?"
Peter shrugs and drops his gaze to the bag of trash. "I made a mess. Didn't want you cleaning up after me," he says, mumbling the last part.
After a beat, Frank shakes his head. "No. You- Sit down, you should be resting. I'll be cleaning up after your ankle if you keep walking on it."
His words must come out harsher than he intended, evident by the way Peter swallows and gives a single nod. He limps over to the couch without protest and lowers himself onto the cushion.
"Sorry, sir," he utters. "But my ankle's already way better. I'm just keeping off it so I don't mess anything up."
Frank raises his eyebrows. "Sir?" he echoes with a huff. What happened to the Punisher? The kid's gonna give him whiplash with all of these one-eighties.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Peter asks instead of responding. There's a hint of desperation in his voice that seems to translate to please give me something to do. It quickly clicks for Frank. As long as he's busy, he doesn't have to focus on the shitstorm his life has turned into.
Frank considers his reply. He gets off the cot and grabs the bag of glass to deposit it by the entrance. He feels Peter's gaze on him as he moves back to the fridge and pulls out the sandwich he bought for Peter last night. He strides back to the couch and drops it on the kid's lap. "Eat up."
Peter's face falls. "I'm not hungry."
"Yeah, doesn't look very appetizing now," Frank says with a shrug. "What do you want?" He finishes his question with a look that lets Peter know that he knew damn well what he meant but isn't going to take it for an answer.
"I dunno," Peter replies. It's a passive response, one that's deliberately crafted to avoid conflict yet still firmly cements Peter's position.
"You don't wanna eat? Then let's talk." Frank grabs the swivel chair and sits back, noting the nervousness that flits across the kid's face. "You gonna give me a full name?"
Peter swallows. His tongue flicks over his lips before he mutters a quiet, "No, sir."
Frank debates whether or not to push it before deciding against it and moving on. "Got any grandparents?"
"No," Peter repeats, furrowing his brow.
"Who do you have that you can go to?"
Peter opens and closes his mouth for a moment, reminding Frank of a fish. "I… I've got parents. Like I told you, they know about Spider-Man."
"Yeah? Then why didn't you call them?"
"They would probably freak out about my injuries and ground me."
"They're freaking out a lot more right now, I can promise you that," Frank retorts, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.
"Like you said, there are people after me," Peter says after a beat. "If I go home, I put them in danger."
Frank lets out a hum, impressed. If it weren't for his stuttered, tearful babbling last night, Frank would probably believe him. Peter said that he was raised by his aunt and uncle, so either his parents are dead or there's a damn good reason why he didn't end up in their custody. As to why Peter's lying to him about it, Frank has a couple guesses. Maybe it's a secret identity thing. Or maybe he doesn't want Frank knowing the extent he's at the end of his rope.
Frank gives a humorless chuckle and looks away to shake his head before focusing back on the kid. "Cut the bullshit."
Peter stiffens. "I'm not- I-It's true."
So the kid is gonna stick with it. Frank thinks he could break him given enough time, but quickly concludes that it's not worth it. He wouldn't gain much, especially since he wants the kid to stay until he heals anyway. By the time that happens, he won't have an excuse to cling to. So Frank briefly raises his hands with his palms open, signalling to Peter that he's backing off. He doesn't miss the look of relief that passes over Peter's face.
Though he's given up on trying to pry more information out of the kid for the time being, it doesn't mean he's given up on everything else. Hungry or not, Peter hasn't eaten since at least yesterday afternoon and he has an enhanced metabolism to support. So Frank stands and forms a quick plan, pulling out his car keys from his pocket. He pointedly holds up the keys and gestures with his head toward the warehouse exit. "C'mon."
Peter opens his mouth as if he's about to speak, then closes it and frowns with a tight brow. When Frank turns to the door, Peter hurries to his side. "Where—?"
"There's a gas station about five miles out. Nothing fancy, but it's got good coffee. You like coffee, Pete?"
Peter shakes his head, keeping pace with Frank to the door. "Uh, no, not really."
"Then you're picking out something you do like," Frank says in a tone that leaves little room for argument.
He grabs Peter's arm and puts it over his shoulders, bracing him as he walks out to the parking lot with his duffle in his other hand. He half expects the kid to bolt the second he unlocks the warehouse door and makes it outside, but Peter just lets Frank support him and quietly limps along to his van.
When Frank opens the passenger door, Peter follows his wordless cue and uses his good leg to boost himself up to the seat. He immediately buckles himself in and watches Frank make his way around to the driver's seat. Frank presses his mouth in a tight line as he tries to pinpoint what exactly prompted this shift. Just yesterday Peter was making a break for it into the woods, the only thing stopping him being the Midazolam that David had been lucky enough to get him with. Now not only is he willingly going where Frank wants him to go, but he isn't making a fuss about any of it either.
He isn't like Amy, that much is certain. Amy was like a feral kitten, something unassuming with sharp claws that came to him for scraps then ran away whenever he tried to get close. Something that thought it was old enough to be independent and fend for itself, with walls that took Frank weeks and patience he didn't know he possessed to get past.
Peter's more of a duckling. A duckling that just lost its parent, so it's latching onto and putting its trust in the nearest person that gives it any semblance of protection, indifferent to if said person is of the same species or not. A part of Frank wonders how long that would last. Peter's too different from Amy to make any sort of prediction. Amy's past made her of tougher stuff; her whole life was a shitstorm. For Peter, it just all came crashing down.
Frank twists the keys into the ignition, roaring the engine to life. He turns on the radio to fill the silence when Peter doesn't, though it's clear the kid wants to if the way he wrings his hands together in his lap is anything to go by.
"What?" Frank asks once they pull out of the parking lot.
Peter bites his lip. "It's just, uh- I had homecoming, not too long ago. And I was gonna go with this girl I really liked, at the time." The kid pauses and Frank can't help a chuckle. School dances and girls. That's what he should be thinking about at his age. Frank's relieved that Peter still has it in him, but then the kid continues.
"But when I went to her house, her dad was- he was a bad guy. Like, he threw me—Spider-Man—in a lake before. And he tried to kill me another time on a ferry that got lasered in half, if- if you've heard of that." It sounds vaguely familiar to Frank, but he focuses more on repressing a sigh. Of course this can't be a normal high school story. Not with this kid.
"That's some shitty luck right there," Frank comments when the kid takes a long breath.
Peter huffs. "Yeah. And he figured out my identity on the car ride to the dance. He told me that if I came after him instead of going to homecoming, he'd- he'd kill me."
"So you went after him," Frank guesses. He still isn't sure where this story is going, so he gives Peter a curious look after he turns into town.
"I had to," Peter says. "He, um—" the kid swallows, taking a deep breath "—he dropped a building on me."
Frank goes still at this. Suddenly, Peter frozen in fear at the collapsing building makes more than enough sense. Did Gargan know this? If he planned the collapsing building specifically for the kid… Frank tightens his grip on the wheel.
"And he tried to kill me some more. He had this big, freaky winged robot suit. I won, sent him to jail, but zero out of ten on homecoming 'n all. Basically…" Peter inhales slowly through his nose before speaking. "I knew he was the bad guy. He thought he was the good guy. It's like that, a lot. Every villain is the hero of their own story, you know? I guess my guy thought he could be the hero even if he dropped buildings on people."
Frank thinks he can see where this is going now.
Peter turns to face him and says, "Mr. Castle… what do you think you are?"
The kid sounds genuinely curious and he's looking up at him with those big doe-eyes again. Frank drums his fingers along the steering wheel. It almost feels like the kind of question Red would ask. "I'm the guy that kills the bad guys. What do you think that makes me?"
Peter stares back out the windshield. He parts his lips and draws in a breath, but nothing comes of it.
Frank decides that the kid would benefit from a long talk with Red. Hell, maybe even the other way around. He'd try to send Peter Red's way when all this is over, because if it was a philosophical debate Peter wanted, Red would be more than happy to oblige. And if he's lucky, maybe Red's Catholic guilt would lead to him keeping an eye out for the kid. Or ear—however the hell he worked.
Peter quietly clears his throat. "Mac Gargan and his guys—are you gonna kill them?"
"Yeah," Frank says after a beat. He turns to Peter for a moment, narrowing his eyes on the kid. "Are you gonna try to stop me?"
Peter takes a shuddering breath and looks down at his lap. He doesn't respond, and at first Frank thinks it's because he knew Frank wouldn't like it. Then Frank concludes that the kid simply doesn't have an answer.
For Peter, the ride to the gas station passes in a blur.
He makes an effort to take note of the street signs and mile markers as they drive by and mentally catalog all the turns, but it isn't long before it all gets jumbled together in his head. Maybe he should care, but Peter finds himself unable to. It's not like he's thinking about escaping—not anymore. He's not even sure if he's still a prisoner, or if he ever was.
Peter hadn't been Spider-Man when the Punisher trial gripped the nation, but he'd still paid close attention. May had friends that were working in the hospital when he attacked, and Peter remembers her commenting how relieved she was that he was off the streets. She hadn't wished the death penalty for him—she wouldn't wish that on anyone—but she'd been unwavering in her opinion that a life in prison was what he deserved. Though when it was reported that the Punisher was killed, she didn't seem all that distraught.
It was a few months back when the Punisher was spotted active again. Peter would never forget how May had sat him down and made him promise to stick to Queens and stay far away from that man. Peter had tried to argue that the Punisher's MO was that he only hurt criminals, but he had been quickly shut down when May countered that she didn't want Peter anywhere near the criminals that the Punisher brought it upon himself to kill either. Also vigilantism is a crime, Peter. He'd considered bringing it up to Mr. Stark, but decided against it when he concluded that he'd get the same response he got with Toomes: below the Avengers' paygrade, but still far above yours.
It was after Ned came to him and said, with genuine concern, "You're not going after the Punisher, right?" that Peter finally meant it when he agreed.
Now, he's sitting in the passenger seat in Mr. Castle's van—because the Punisher doesn't feel right anymore—pulling into the parking lot of the convenience store. There's at least four times as many guns in the van as Toomes had in his car when he threatened him, and he knows the man at the wheel is more dangerous, yet his Spider Sense is silent. Maybe his instincts are wrong, but when he looks over at Mr. Castle, it's hard to see the man from the TV or the man May warned him to keep his distance from. He sees the man who held him as he cried in the same way Ben and May would and told him that May's death wasn't his fault.
Maybe that's a problem. Or maybe… maybe the media was wrong.
Mr. Castle shifts the car into park and Peter automatically moves to grab the handle, but stops when Mr. Castle holds out a hand. "There's one camera in there that's angled to the check-out counter. Don't face it directly. You got it?"
Peter meets Mr. Castle's eyes and nods.
"Good." With that, Mr. Castle opens the door and steps out of the van. Peter follows suit and hears the click of the locks once he shuts the door behind him. He trails after Mr. Castle into the store.
The lady at the counter is quick to glance over when the bell chimes to announce their presence. Her eyes narrow on Mr. Castle for a moment, but when her gaze shifts to Peter hanging by his side, she turns back to her phone with an air of disinterest. The only other customer is one who looks to be an old trucker, reading over the packaging on a wound-up cable. Mr. Castle seems to pay no mind to either of them as he strides over to the coffee machines in the corner. When he stops to grab a cup, Peter stops and takes a couple steps back.
"Thought you said you didn't like coffee," Mr. Castle comments, not bothering to look over to Peter as he places the cup under the black coffee dispenser.
Peter frowns. "I don't."
"Then why're you by the coffee machines?"
Oh. Peter can take a hint. His stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of eating, but Mr. Castle's insistent and he knows he'll have to eventually. He turns in the direction of the pastries and absently picks out a package of cinnamon bagels. A glass bottle of lemonade in a fridge catches his eye on his way back, and he finds that the prospect of drinking doesn't seem so bad. By the time he has what he wants in hand, Mr. Castle's waiting for him behind the trucker, who's taking his time to decide which brand of cigarettes he wants to add to the counter.
The Punisher's buying you bagels. Ned'll get a kick out of that. Peter holds back a huff. Ned would beg him to go over everything Punisher in excruciating detail when- when- Peter falters. He has second period with Ned in less than five minutes. Ned will notice he's gone, and he will text him, and Peter won't answer because his phone's back at his apartment-
Peter squeezes his eyes shut and forces Ned and school from his mind. He's reminding himself to keep his head down and away from the camera when a sharp tingle runs down his neck and prompts him to snap his head around to the parking lot. Two midsize cars, a silver and a black, drive into the gas station. Neither of them stop at the gas pumps. They slowly pull up to the parking spots directly outside the store and park side-by-side.
Peter doesn't realize how tense he's gotten until a hand on his shoulder makes him jump. "It's okay. It's okay," Mr. Castle murmurs. A quick glance confirms that he's followed Peter's gaze, his expression impossible to read.
"Mr. Ca-" Peter breaks off as Mr. Castle shifts him to his opposite side, placing himself firmly between Peter and the door. Peter cranes his neck in an attempt to see around him, but Mr. Castle counters him by tightening his hold on his shoulder and tugging it back.
Car doors slam closed outside, immediately followed by low voices. His Spider Sense thrums again as the old trucker leaves the counter with his grocery bag, and Peter feels his heart pounding behind his ribcage as the man walks closer and closer to the door. His finger twitches for his web-shooter and his blood runs cold when all he feels is his bare wrist. Something bad is coming, he can feel it crawling under his skin-
"Walk to the bathroom. Don't look back. Walk," Mr. Castle orders in undertone.
Peter shakes his head. "I can hel-"
"No. You wanna keep a secret identity? You stay there 'til I get you." He supplements the command with a shove toward the back of the store.
Fear keeps Peter's feet moving, his eyes fixed on the bathroom ahead even when he wants nothing more than to glance behind him. He ducks through the door and pulls it closed just as the bell rings back at the front.
He hears nothing for a long moment and almost breathes a sigh of relief. He's just being paranoid. How could Gargan have found him anyway? He doesn't have his phone or his suit on him, and-
"We don't want any trouble with you, Castle. Just give us the kid."
Peter's breath catches in his throat and he freezes himself against the wall. The words weren't loud and they were muffled by the door, but his enhanced hearing hones in on it to make it as clear as day. His pulse thunders in his eardrums, almost drowning out the response.
"'Don't want any trouble.' That so?"
There's a long beat before the reply. "Gargan's willing to forgive you if you hand the kid over."
Peter scrunches his eyes shut and presses his forehead against the cold tile wall, frantically trying to take back control of his breathing. It feels like there's a hammering in his chest, going faster and faster and making his body tremble with it. Mr. Castle wouldn't. He wouldn't. Would he? There's no windows in the bathroom, and it's a single stall. There's nowhere he can hide, nowhere he can run, and his web-shooters and suit are miles away. Please, please, please…
He has to strain to hear the response that comes after Mr. Castle's scoff. "Well ain't that nice of him."
The distinctive clicking of guns' safeties being switched off follows. "You don't have to have any part in-"
Whatever Mr. Castle doesn't have to have a part in is interrupted by a bang. Peter jolts and compacts himself into the corner, ducking his head and covering his ears and failing not to wince with every subsequent gunshot. The sudden movement reminds him of the pain in his chest, but his attention is quick to shift away from it. A crash is followed by a pained shout that's cut off by a harsh thud, then comes the sound of blows landing that Peter's all too familiar with.
A shattering explosion and the sound of glass skidding across the floor tells him that one of the shelves lining the aisles must've toppled over, yet he finds himself automatically looking to the lights above the mirror. An infuriated shout from Mr. Castle precedes a howl from someone else, a howl that goes silent after another bang.
Peter's heart does something funny in his chest when he processes just what that silence means.
He's killing them.
Peter's holed away in the bathroom and Frank Castle's killing them.
What are you supposed to do?! a voice shouts from the back of his mind. You don't have your suit! Peter swallows and shakes his head, gritting his teeth together when the snap of bone sends a shudder down his spine. If he's nothing without the suit, he shouldn't have it, right? Suit or not, he knows he couldn't live with himself if he hid here and did nothing.
Shakily, he pushes himself to his feet and tries to ignore the pale, shivering teenager in the mirror across from him. He's Spider-Man. He's fought Captain America. What're some goons to a crime boss in a gas station? Gathering his resolve, Peter wraps his fingers around the doorknob and twists it open. When his Spider Sense tells him that the coast is clear, he slips outside.
There are three bodies on the ground.
Peter tears his gaze away, trying to quell the wave of nausea that washes over him when the smell hits. Peter can't say that he's never drawn blood in a fight before, but this- this is next level. Crimson smears stain the floor and splatter against the walls and the windows like a Jackson Pollock painting. The center shelf is lying on its side, candies and chip bags scattered and opened on the floor like the aftermath of some violent piñata. A display case of greeting cards leans against the wall with a plethora of bloodstained cards decorating the floor.
A cough snaps Peter back to the present. Instinct has him ducking behind an aisle and directs his gaze to the corner of the store. Mr. Castle is rammed up against the wall, two men holding him in place. He's bleeding under his eye and there's droplets of blood spattered unevenly on his face. At first Peter thinks this explains the red color, but then he notices the thick power cable being pressed against his windpipe and the jerky movements of his limbs as he kicks and punches against the men. When the third man taps a wooden baseball bat against the ground as he approaches Mr. Castle, pace slow and gloating, Peter's heart skips a beat.
Peter lunges for the lemonade bottle still on the counter and sends it sailing for the man on Mr. Castle's right. He stumbles when the bottle collides with the back of his head and shatters on the ground, but he doesn't collapse. Instead, they all go still as every pair of eyes in the store shifts toward Peter.
His Spider Sense screams at him to run, and Peter tries, but his feet remain frozen to the floor.
Mr. Castle's the first one to move. With the man on his right dazed, he ducks out of the power cable and grabs it on the way down. He swiftly straightens the cord in his hands until he gets a grip on the two-pronged end. Peter doesn't register what he's doing, and the dazed man must not either because he looks shocked when Mr. Castle stabs the prongs into his throat.
Holy shit.
Peter can feel the blood draining from his face as he falters back, dropping down behind the shelf but unable to keep himself from hearing the horrible, gurgled choking noises as the man's lifeblood spills out of him onto the tiles. Peter has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat and his hand feels numb when he runs it down his face. The ground is spinning under his feet, so maybe that's why he doesn't heed his Spider Sense's warning and duck out of the way before a barrel of a gun prods against his temple.
"Get up," a voice orders above him.
Peter's not sure how.
"Get up," it snaps, and somehow Peter manages to get to his feet.
He meets the eyes of Mr. Castle from a neighboring aisle and a wet hand clenches tight to his upper arm, the heat of a body behind him. Mr. Castle's chest is heaving and he's now holding the wooden bat, way more red than it was before. His expression is terrifying in its impassiveness, contrasting with how his knuckles are white on the handle of the bat.
"Let him go."
The man steps back and yanks Peter with him, jabbing the gun into Peter's hair. His breath is hot and quick against Peter's ear and although his pants don't come from more than a foot away, they sound like they're echoing to him from a long tunnel. He barely feels the next step the man forces upon him, only aware of the shock that shoot up his foot after it lands. "You take one step closer and it's his brains on the wall."
"Nah. Bullshit," Mr. Castle dismisses, striding closer. The man scrambles back with Peter. "See, you got the gun. Nothing's stopping you from putting a round in him and pointing it back at me. Nothing except your boss wanting him alive."
Mr. Castle takes another step, his guess confirmed when the man reacts again by jerking back and painfully tightening his clasp on Peter's arm. After a moment of hesitation, he steps out from behind Peter and aims the gun at Mr. Castle's head. Something shouts at Peter to disarm him, to go on the offensive while he's out of the line of fire, but his limbs feel strangely disconnected. All he can do is desperately try to regain control over his breaths that seem to come in faster and faster and his lungs that can't quite expand all the way.
Mr. Castle drops the bat as he darts forward and wrenches the gun out of the way, slamming his elbow into the crook of the man's to get it to bend and enable him to snatch the gun for himself. His foot flies at the man's thigh, knocking him to the ground. Mr. Castle stands over him, pressing his boot into his chest and aiming the gun at his head.
"The kid," he growls, "what do you know about him?"
Instead of replying, the man spits up at Mr. Castle's face.
"Okay." Mr. Castle shifts his weight onto the man's chest. A crack from the side of his ribcage is audible over his scream.
"Nothing!" he cries out. "We didn't ask why Gargan wanted the kid! He just gave us his name and said he was with you. That's it, I swear!"
Mr. Castle studies him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. He removes his foot from his chest and the man lets out a relieved gasp. His gun remains angled down at the man as he steps around him, closer to Peter. Peter finds himself shrinking back, ducking away from the imposing figure.
"Hey. Easy, kid," Mr. Castle says, holding up his empty hand. "Easy." Peter swallows back a shuddering breath and fights the urge to recoil from his outstretched hand and bloodied face. But when his palm makes contact with Peter's shoulder, it's nothing like the restraining hold the other man had on him. His grip is careful and when he constricts it, Peter knows that it's meant to ground him, not to be taken as a threat.
Peter shifts his eyes up to Mr. Castle and can't help a sharp breath when they linger over a motionless form of what used to be a person slumped against the wall. His head is turned at an angle that heads aren't supposed to turn and two thin streams of red pour out of his nostrils. His mouth's open, almost as if he'd been in the middle of saying something when-
"No, no, no. Eyes on me. Eyes on me, Pete." Mr. Castle stoops down and blocks Peter's line of sight, his dark gaze flicking over Peter's face.
Peter chokes back the lump rising in his throat but fails to suppress the cold shudder that travels down his spine. "You- th-they're all-"
"Hey, I can't have you losing your shit on me now, okay?" His voice is barely above a whisper, requiring Peter to focus to pick up the words. "We gotta move. Cashier slipped out with her phone. The police won't be long. You with me?"
It takes a moment to register that Mr. Castle asked him a question, but when it does, Peter forces a nod.
"Good. Stay with me." Mr. Castle pulls him closer and maneuvers him in front, keeping a steadying hand on Peter's shoulder as he steers him to the door. He stops just before it, and out of the corner of his eye Peter watches him fire two quick, consecutive shots, one at the camera and the other at the floor behind him.
When Peter tries to turn and see what he shot, Mr. Castle pushes his face back to the door before he gets the chance. The next step he takes is more forceful as he kicks open the door, giving Peter more of a shove than a nudge to get him outside. But it's just enough time for Peter to realize that he can no longer hear the quick breaths of the man that held him at gunpoint. Peter freezes in his tracks.
They're all dead. Mr. Castle just killed six people. He just killed six people and he's trading his gun for his keys like it's a motion that he's used to. Peter knows he's made it more than clear to Mr. Castle how he feels about killing, and he knows that he shouldn't just keep walking with the man who could do things like that. But he also knows that deep down, tangled together with the shock and horror, is a sliver of relief. It makes his stomach lurch, the fact that the death of six men makes him feel relieved, but he's almost dizzy with the feelings that come with the knowledge that those men won't be hunting him down ever again.
The hand on his shoulder urges him onward, accompanied by a quiet, "C'mon, Pete. Keep going, you're okay."
That's a lie, but it's spoken in a tone that makes him want to believe it. Peter lets himself get ushered into the passenger's seat and tries not to tremble as Mr. Castle twists the keys in the ignition.
A/N:
Frank: I've only had Peter for a day and a half but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.